


Mnemonics

by Notadate (sixbeforelunch)



Series: Mnemonics [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-08
Updated: 2008-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixbeforelunch/pseuds/Notadate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"See?" he asks, but she doesn't see. She doesn't understand at all. Spoilers for Memento Mori.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mnemonics

The diner is open five to one, but most days Val doesn't get out until an hour after close. Today, Tony didn't show up, so all day they've been taking shifts by the sink washing dishes. It's the second time this week he hasn't shown up and hasn't called which probably means he's fired which probably means Val is going to be washing dishes on Monday too, while Sal tries to get someone else. By the afternoon, Val's hands are chapped and red, and her nail polish is peeling. She sweeps under the tables, while Gail refills ketchup bottles behind the counter. She can hear Sol in the back, cleaning the grill.

The clock on the wall says it's two in the afternoon and she's bone tired. Her feet ache from standing all day and her back aches from carrying the tray and the headache that the screaming toddler gave her this morning still hasn't gone away.

This is not the work of a queen.

Val jerks her head up, startled. She hates hates hates the thoughts that come into her head sometimes. Scary, crazy thoughts that make her breath catch in her throat and her mind race. She is not a queen. She was never a queen. She's a waitress in a diner in a not all that nice neighborhood in Denver. She makes minimum wage plus tips and most of her clothes were given to her by the girls who work in the diner with her.

The tap on her shoulder takes her by surprise and Val starts, knocking a chair off from where it was perched upside down on top of the table, out of the way so she could sweep.

Holly bends over and picks the chair up, putting it back up on the table. "You okay, hon?"

"Yeah, just tired," Val says.

Holly hands her a plastic bottle.

"What's this?"

"Hand cream. Washing dishes is murder. My cuticles look like hell," Holly says, and Val smiles.

"Thanks." Val puts on too much and has to stand for a few minutes, working the hand cream into her skin and spreading it up her arms so it will absorb faster. When she hands the bottle back, Holly shakes her head.

"Keep it. I can get more."

"No, I--"

Holly smiles. "It's okay, hon. You need it more than me."

Val knows that Holly has just as many problems as she does. Maybe more, since her daughter is pregnant and there's going to be another mouth to feed soon. She also knows Holly won't take no for an answer. They've all seen the way Val is living out of a bag from the drugstore. Part of Val hates taking advantage of people while another part of her knows that sometimes that's the only way to survive.

"Thanks."

When they finally finish cleaning up, Gail and Holly head out and Val washes her hands for the last time in the sink. She sits on a stool near the bar and smears more of the hand cream on her skin. Her hands are still red, but not so dry anymore.

_She's supposed to be doing something. There's a gun in her hands. She's supposed to be keeping watch, but mostly all she's watching are the hands. The hands that sweep across the ancient walls, practiced and sure. Earlier, she got yelled at for touching. These hands touch everything, but carefully, gently._

They're the gentlest hands she's ever known. Calloused and strong, but rarely used as weapons. Words are his weapon of choice. Hands he uses to heal, to search, to repair, to find. Almost never to hurt.

They're skilled hands. Educated hands. They're the hands of a man who has the luxury of choosing how hard to work. They aren't the hands of someone who has spend the day scraping bits of dried mustard off of plates.

She steps closer to him and he looks at her. She can't see his face. She wants to, but it's clouded.

He takes her hand in his. It's warm and soft. He runs her fingers over the text on the walls.

"See?" he asks, but she doesn't see. She doesn't understand at all.

"Val?"

She jumps and nearly falls off the stool. Sal puts his hand on her arm, to catch her. It made her uncomfortable at first, when he touched her, made her think he wanted something more than a day's work out of her. But she's pretty sure now that Sal is just a good man. She doesn't think there have been many good men in her life.

"You look half asleep. You should get home and take a nap."

"I am home." All she has to do is walk through the back door and up a flight of old metal stairs and she'll be in the tiny apartment that Sal's letting her stay in.

Sal smiles. "Not quite." He hands her a styrofoam container. "I made you some chicken parm. You can heat it up for later."

Val nods.

"More bad memories?"

"I think these were good ones."

"Hey, that's good."

"Sure."

"Hell of a first week, huh?"

Val shrugs.

"Well, tomorrow's Sunday, so we're closed. Maybe you can take some time and get yourself to a doctor."

Val shrugs again. They both know she won't.

He walks her out and the fire door closes behind her. He's headed out the front door, she knows, and he'll lock the door behind him. Sal's nice, but he's not stupid. He's the only one who has a key. She could pick the lock, but she knows she won't. She doesn't do those things anymore. She doesn't know when she did, or what made her stop, but she knows she doesn't do it anymore.

The alley behind the diner is empty. The dumpster is just past the stairs, and Val has to sleep with the windows closed or else she'll smell it all night. She climbs the stairs slowly, knowing she's done harder things than work six days a week in a diner, and not being sure when or what they were. Inside the apartment, she strips down to her underwear and doesn't bother to put anything else on. The heat from the diner rises up and it's hot as Netu up here.

She sits on the ratty couch that the last people who lived here left behind and watches the light filter in from outside. It's still bright out. Val closes her eyes and tries to picture the man with the soft and strong hands, but the only images that come are the bad ones, the ones she'd do almost anything to escape. It's easier to put the TV on, sit curled up on the couch, and watch Mulder and Scully argue. It's easier to not think at all.

fin


End file.
